


divine

by thir13enth



Series: seeing stars [5]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, and of course the first thing i write is smut, first fic of 2017, lol yay it took me forever to produce something this month, shallurafanfiction prompt, sighhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9327872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thir13enth/pseuds/thir13enth
Summary: “and she carves her hips into mine like she’s michelangelo, and i’m something holy”—shallura. nsfw.





	

**Author's Note:**

> yep first fic of 2017. for [shallurafanfiction](http://shallurafanfiction.tumblr.com)'s anon prompt: “and she carves her hips into mine like she’s michelangelo, and i’m something holy” 
> 
> nsfw was encouraged, and i’m not one to let the opportunity go.
> 
> i don’t quite use the exact words in this prompt because that would open a whole new world of first-person that i’m not willing to go down right now, but this is definitely inspired by such. all references to art and religion are not a coincidence. i mean, it's fucking michelangelo.

 

The nightgown slips off her shoulder, and when he sees the entirety of her rich brown skin — russet warm at the curves of her waist, darker prickles at the gentle slopes of her breast, golden amber at the corners of her glowing smile, — he can’t help the words that slip off his tongue:

“You’re a work of art.”

She laughs once, softly through pursed lips, before she rests her hands onto the mattress and slowly paws toward him. Her thick eyelashes, peppered with the same white glint of her hair, lower over her eyes, rest like butterflies on her cheeks. She makes it obvious she’s not looking at his face, that she’s focused instead on the downward-leadings edges of his hips and the thickening line of hair that guides her gaze to his erection. He watches the sway of her body, the valley of her chest — and when her striking blue eyes suddenly look up, she catches his mesmerized gaze and she grins.

“ _You’re_ a work of art,” she purrs, rebutting him. She doesn’t break eye contact, sweeping her clothing to the floor with one hand. “ _My_ work of art,” she growls, and uses her other hand to push his torso back against the pillows.

He gasps sharply at her force, breathes in again after the back of his shoulders hit the head of the bed. He props his body up with his elbows, steadies the remainder of his body but she’s already on top, trapping him between her split thighs and the descent of her hands on his chest and she leans in close and breathes air over his face so cool it sends chills down his neck.

“Allura,” he chokes out.

All he feels is warm and hot and _hard_ where she’s sitting down, where her skin meets his skin, where she’s _grinding up against him_ silky smooth, and he wants so badly to take the backs of her thighs and swells of her bottom into his hands but he is frozen by her stare, he is captivated by the magenta pulse under her eyes, and he waits to see what move his queen will play next.

“Takashi,” she gently calls his name, as if savoring the light Japanese consonants on her tongue. She reaches up with her thumb and runs the finger over his bottom lip a few times before she drags back the fullest part, holding it down and beholding the curl of his mouth.

Then she lets go, his lip snaps back into place, and she lunges forward, kissing him with the fire of ten thousand suns and the hunger of empty space deplete of stars. Waist entrapped under her split thighs, face curtained within her hair, mouth occupied by her kiss – he lies still while she does her number on him, blending her lust into his body and making something completely anew from it.

She consumes all his breath, and his eyes flutter closed as he feels her take control of him.

His body is her canvas. He is blank but she has more than enough imagination to know what she wants to see on him. She starts at the top and works her way down to the bottom, her mouth slow yet her lips fire. She paints a glossy trail with her tongue, dots purple kisses with her teeth, leaves fresh red raised streaks with her nails. She doesn’t shy from signing him as hers, even if she knows her marks are well above the line of his collar — clearly presenting how he spent the night before at the breakfast table the day after.

Her hair follows the same path as her tongue down his chest, the thick and heavy silk silver waves rippling over him, like moonlight on the surface of rough ocean water. He wraps a twirl of her tresses between his fingers, but she’s moving down him so quickly that the strand slips off the metal.

He doesn’t know where she is because her hair conceals her head and her hands, but suddenly a moan slips from his lips and he knows then that she is _exactly_ where she needs to be.

He raises himself to slip his forearm under the sheet of her hair, and he flips it back over her head just in time for him to see her taking him into her mouth. Inch by inch she descends, all the while maintaining steady eye contact with him — but then peels her eyes away and downward to angle her face so that her lips reach the very bottom and his cock hits the soft ceiling of her throat.

She holds herself there for a moment, lets her spit slip out of her wide open mouth to pool at the base before she lifts up and smiles at him.

“Do you want to come, Takashi?” she simply asks.

He swallows hard, wide-eyed and frozen. _Of course_ he wants to come, but he also doesn’t trust himself to last. Resisting is hard enough as it is when she’s using her tongue, and it has been quite a while since they haven’t just skipped right to the sex.

“…yes,” he nevertheless hears himself say, his mind giving in. “ _Yes_.”

She purrs at his answer, and then settles into a soft gentle rhythm, up and down, slick and lubricated.

He lasts a few more strokes before the tension between his legs tightens and the urge to release begins to take over any coherent thoughts in his mind. He holds himself in and lets her keep going, all the while she makes it harder and harder for him to keep himself together. His excitement builds and his hand grows sweaty, tangled in the mess of her hair. A strand of silver hair falls from behind her ear.

Before long, all he can think about is coming in her mouth, driving his hips up hard into her. His hands fist the sheets around him and he bites down on his lip, closing his eyes to just concentrate on not falling completely apart because of her hand-and-tongue work.

He wants to fuck her — and he can’t let himself give in so easy when he _knows_ it will feel better if he just delays his gratification for a little while longer.

“Are you close?” she murmurs against his cock, her breath cooling the spit on his length.

“Fuck,” he exhales, nodding. “Yeah.”

She hums happily and then takes him again. He tells himself he doesn’t want to come, that he _shouldn’t_ come, despite every nerve in his body ready to release. It’s torturous, but so awfully pleasant all at the same time, and he knows that she’s _purposefully_ making this as hard as she can for him.

He briefly remembers the hot summer night when he was between her legs as she shuddered under his tongue. He remembers how he spread her thighs wide apart, pushing her knees back into the mattress while he ate her out, trading kisses for suckles and flicks for glides. He remembers her screaming into a pillow and her shaking body.

This is payback, he thinks. This is payback for when —

“ _Fuck_.”

He almost let go. His memory lapses. He pleads no to himself, catching his breath and exhaling hard to calm down. His toes and fingers curl as he wills himself back down to a more controllable plateau.

“—Allura,” he groans, stifled and through pursed lips.

His eyes are closed but he can feel her look up at him, her lips still tight around his tip. He feels her smile around his cock, and he feels her tongue flicker just below the ridge.

He forces his eyes open to give the princess an appreciative glance, but seeing her slim fingers around him tight and the curl of her smirk at the crux of his most sensitive spots completely evaporates his will.

She winks — and his head falls back to the pillow.

“Fuck, _Allura_.”

She giggles and plants a kiss onto his shaft, her hand pressing his erection flush against her face. She languidly drags her tongue back up to the top and then takes a quick breath before she swallows him down whole all over again.

At this point, he doesn’t know if she’s worshipping him more than he’s already glorifying her. She’s a goddess, a master with her tongue, and she is savoring him like he’s her last sip of centuries-old fine wine. She strokes him with the same hands that hold him close. She takes him with the same mouth that tells him she loves him, and she moans with the same voice that hums when he repeats back the same.

And god, if he knows what the difference between loving and being loved is, because she breathes life into him in a way that makes art, and he…

He is simply her masterpiece, and she is about to give him the finishing touch.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know why this turned out so much longer than it needed to. major sighs.


End file.
